


Molly's Gift

by mainegirlwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas gift, Molly loves Sherlock, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 12:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13364379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainegirlwrites/pseuds/mainegirlwrites
Summary: Have you ever wondered what Molly gave Sherlock as a Christmas gift in "A Scandal in Belgravia" (Series 2, Episode 1)? Here is my idea. I actually scribed the scene in the episode word for word where Sherlock discovers the gift, but I have inserted Molly's thoughts and feelings to deepen the story.I would love to see what YOU think was in that little parcel - let me know in the comments! As always, thank you for reading!





	Molly's Gift

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” Molly scolded herself. “Calm down!” she clenched her trembling hands together tightly, willing them still. She sat at her kitchen table which was covered with pieces and parts of Christmas wrapping paper and ribbon. She took hold of a new sheet and attempted to wrap the small box in front of her, once again.

This time she was successful. The paper was carefully creased and folded, the gold ribbon adorning it perfectly. She placed it at the top of the bag containing all the other gifts, and pulled on her coat.

On the taxi ride over to Baker Street, she freshened her lipstick for the third time and smoothed back her hair.

“He’ll love it, he’ll just love it,” she whispered to herself, eyeing the small box on the top of all the others in the bag beside her. “I know he will.”

“What’s that, miss?” the driver asked, squinting at her in the rear-view mirror.

“Oh, I bought someone the perfect Christmas gift. I know he’ll love it!” she exclaimed happily.

“Ah, boyfriend, then?”

Molly felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “Maybe, someday.”

“Well, ‘ere we are. Say, isn’t this Sherlock Holmes place?”

Molly frantically pulled bills from her purse and handed them to the driver. As always, her big mouth was going to get her in trouble. “Keep the change – Merry Christmas!”

“Yeah, Merry Christmas, and good luck!”

Molly stood on the sidewalk, her bags of gifts beside her. The faint strains of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” were being played on the violin in the flat above her. It was Sherlock. She could just see his lean form in the window, ramrod straight, violin under his chin. At the song’s conclusion, he gave a brief bow to the cheers from the others in the room.

_I could just_ _stand here. Watch from afar. That’s how its always been, anyway. Would he know – or even care – if I never showed up? Probably not. Bloody self-absorbed, arrogant, genius, handsome, with those eyes, those hands -_   Molly clenched her eyes shut and shook her head. She glanced once more at the little package sitting atop all the others, the bow on it curved like the eyes of an expectant child. She grasped the bags with resolve and headed upstairs.

*******

“Oh, dear Lord,” she heard Sherlock say as she entered the flat.

“Hello, everyone. Sorry, hello. It said on the door just to come up,” she offered shyly as John approached her.

“Welcome!” John greeted her, and she nodded as Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson echoed the greeting.

“Oh, everybody’s saying hullo to each other. How wonderful,” Sherlock muttered as he sat down in front of his laptop. Molly felt her lips pull into a smile, though it was only directed at his back.

“Here, let me take your coat – oh, Holy Mary!” John exclaimed.  Indeed, Molly had dressed – and now realized, she overdressed – for the occasion. She had dug into her savings to purchase a form fitting, deep cut black dress with glittery trim. Matching hoop earrings and a silver Christmas ribbon completed her outfit. But Sherlock had not noticed.

“Having Christmas drinkies, then?” Molly said, trying to ignore Lestrade’s agape mouth. She felt jittery, on edge, her heart pumping sudden adrenaline.

“No stopping them, apparently,” Sherlock muttered, still focused on the laptop.

“It’s the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it’s almost worth it!” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully, apparently already a few ‘drinkies’ in. Molly felt her eyes bore into Sherlock’s back, the dark suit coat coming up to just the edge of his impossibly long and delicate neck, a few curls coaxed out along his skin. She found herself giggling nervously for no apparent reason. Well, yes, of course there was a reason. And that reason was sitting atop all the other presents in the bag next to her.  Waiting, anticipating its turn. Its reveal. She felt her heart pound.

John offered her a seat, then was called over to look at something that interested Sherlock on the laptop.

“Molly? Molly? Would you like a drink?” Greg asked, and she nodded, eager to listen to the flatmate’s conversation.  

“The counter on your blog still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five,” Sherlock said to John, who then turned to the detective with a mock-angry expression.

“Christmas is cancelled!” John replied with heavy sarcasm.

“And you’ve got a photograph of me wearing that hat!”

“People like the hat,” replied John, nonplussed.

“No, they don’t – what people?!” Sherlock replied indignantly, but John walked away to attend to Jeanine, his girlfriend.

“How’s the hip?” Molly offered to Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. “Ooh, it’s atrocious, but thanks for asking.”

“I’ve seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems,” Molly said, a bit too quickly. Wide eyes and an awkward silence immediately filled the room.

“Don’t make jokes, Molly,” Sherlock finally offered.

“No, sorry. Ah, John. I hear you’re off to your sister’s, is that right?” she stammered, trying to save herself from the black hole that suddenly began to open under her toes.

“First time ever, she’s cleaned up her act. She’s off the booze,” John said proudly.

“Nope.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John snapped.

Sherlock, apparently bored by the tedious small talk, suddenly sprang to his feet. “I see you’ve got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you’re serious about him.”

The black hole at Molly’s feet opened wide like a hungry shark.  

“Sorry, what?” she managed.

“In fact, you’re seeing him this very night and giving him a gift.”

“Take a day off, Sherlock,” John whispered, exasperated.

“Shut up and have a drink,” offered Lestrade.

“Oh, come on. Surely, you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best,” Sherlock sauntered up to the bags next to Molly and picked up the present – _the present_ , and turned it easily in his hand. She wanted to snatch it back like a protective mother, but she felt paralyzed. “It’s for someone special, then. The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association or one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _loooove_ on her mind. The fact that she’s serious about him is clear from the fact she’s giving him a gift at all.”

John glanced at her helplessly. Her felt the suction of the black hole tugging at her feet.

“That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that she’s seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she’s wearing,” the detective continued, enjoying himself. “Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…,”

The black hole had a good hold on her now. She was done for, except a final thought before it tore her stomach out through her toes:

_Oh my God. I hate him. I loathe him._

She stared at him as he opened the tag and read what she had written, in her best schoolgirl script:

**Dearest Sherlock Love Molly xxx**

_There, I’ve done it. I’ve confessed my love to meanest, most selfish, self-centered man on the face of this entire earth. I hate him, and I hate myself for doing that._

She willed the black hole to swallow her. Now.

Molly took no pleasure in the shock that appeared in the detective’s face as he stared at the words for a long, heart-stopping moment. It was her own fault for doing this, for expecting something, anything, for putting the words on paper, for wrapping a thoughtful gift, for thinking for one IOTA OF A MOMENT -

“You always say such horrible things,” she heard herself say over the roar of the black hole that threatened to engulf her.

“Every time.

Always.

Always.”

_I will not cry. I will not give this bloody snail of a man the pleasure of seeing me – oh my God he’s going to walk away from me – he is a -_

But Sherlock turned to face her. His blue-grey eyes, shining in the fairly lights that adorned the flat, met hers. “I am sorry. Forgive me,” he said sincerely, and he took a step towards her. Into _her_ space. Molly’s world shifted as the black hole dropped away and her senses were flooded with a woody scent of an expensive shampoo or cologne she didn’t know which – his body, so tall and lithe this close to her – the sight of that plum shirt stretched tight across his chest – good God the presence of this man was completely incomprehensible unless you were this close to him – all long limbs but grace and poise and a strumming strength and he was saying -   

“Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.”

His brusque baritone softened. For her. For only her to hear, for her ears only, and he leaned close and Molly closed her eyes as he gently kissed her on the cheek, lips on her skin, the smooth feel of something warm and intangible and unbelievable this close to her. She raised her hand to touch him on the arm, to tell him that she forgave him, that she would always forgive him, for he was -

_“AAHH!”_

“No! That wasn’t ... I – I didn’t!” Molly babbled, stunned by the orgasmic sigh that broke the silence, that killed the moment.

“It was me,” Sherlock said calmly.

“What, really?!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“My phone,” the detective sighed, reaching for it in his jacket pocket. Molly could not help but notice that John looked perturbed.

“Fifty-seven?”

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock answered his flatmate distantly as he read the text message.

“Fifty-seven of those texts – the ones I’ve heard.”

Molly looked between them, completely confused as Sherlock placed Molly’s gift down on his desk next to his laptop and walked to the mantlepiece with purpose. A gift, wrapped in blood-red paper and tied with a rope-like string, had been tucked behind some Christmas cards on the mantle. Sherlock picked it up, studying it.

 “Thrilling that you’ve been counting. Excuse me.”

John followed Sherlock to his bedroom, but returned a few short moments later. “I guess that’s it for tonight, then,” he said, with a forced smile and a clap of his hands. Lestrade helped Mrs. Hudson bring a few plates to the kitchen and then walked the landlady downstairs. Molly gathered her bags of unopened gifts and glanced at the one sitting, alone, on Sherlock’s desk. John followed her eyes.

“I’ll see that he gets it,” he reassured her.

“I think I’ll just take it back.”

“No, Molly -,”

She tripped in her heels in her haste to get to the gift, turning her head away from John as he helped her up. The roar of her tears – or was it that black hole again – rose in her ears.

“Please.”

“Molly, look at me.” John held her by the shoulders and forced her to look him in the face. “Everyone says that it’s better to give than receive. In Sherlock’s case, I think – no, I _know_ – it would do him good to receive a heartfelt gift from someone who cares about him. He needs to know that you care about him.”

She forced a thin smile and nodded.

 “Oh, John. You’re a good, kind man. Always there to pick up the pieces. All right,” she whispered.

“Here, on with your coat now. Let me come out with you to grab a taxi.”

“Actually, I’ve got a car waiting,” Molly said with awe as she held up her phone for John to see the text message. “I’m needed at St. Bart’s.”

“Oh, God,” John said, his face falling. “Well, good night – sorry about that -,”

Molly nodded and accepted John’s hug, then descended the stairs to the waiting car.

***

She hadn’t been at the morgue more than twenty minutes, just enough time to pull some spare clothes out of her locker to change into, comb out her hair, and wipe off that ridiculous lipstick, before she heard them coming down the hall. Having memorized everything about Sherlock, she knew his footsteps. She glanced at the paperwork next to the body on the table, but there wasn’t much there – young woman, late 20’s to early 30’s, found alongside a dumpster outside a busy restaurant about an hour ago. Molly smoothed her lab coat and raised her chin as the two men entered the room.

“The only one that fitted the description. Had her brought here – your home from home,” Mycroft said as he opened the door. Molly willed her face to be still, to not break into a foolish smile, trying to remember the hurt he had afflicted upon her that very evening before he had given her the kiss.

“You didn’t need to come in, Molly,” Sherlock said to her, eyes and voice low.

“That’s okay. Everyone else was busy with...Christmas,” her hands flailed awkwardly toward the body, covered with a white sheet. “The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult.” She took a deep breath and pulled back the sheet for the men to see.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock, bent over the remains of a face, looked up at Molly, his eyes slivers like a prowling cat. “Show me the rest of her.”

Too shocked to argue, Molly pulled the sheet back from the body, watching as Sherlock gave the poor, dead woman a complete once over. Satisfied, Sherlock stood up and walked away, telling Mycroft: “That’s her.”

“Thank you, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft nodded.

_That’s HER? That’s WHO!? Sherlock had known her body. He had looked at her curvaceous, porcelain body and knew her._

“Who is she? How did Sherlock recognize her from...not her face?”

_Oh my God my big BLOODY mouth._

Sherlock’s older brother was wise enough to just smile politely and exit the morgue, leaving the confused and abashed young lady alone in the cold room with the desecrated corpse. She stood there for several minutes, seeing but not seeing the body, until she smelled the faint odor of a cigarette out in the corridor. She carefully replaced the sheet and sidled up to the door, cracking it just a bit, enough to hear the conversation between the two brothers.

“We’re in a morgue. There’s only so much damage you can do,” Mycroft reassured Sherlock as his brother inhaled deeply. “How did you know she was dead?”

“She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up.” Sherlock took another deep drag on the cigarette.

“Where is this item now?”

But instead of answering, Sherlock gazed thoughtfully at a sobbing family at the end of the corridor.

“Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

“Ugh, this is low tar!”

“Well, you barely knew her.”

Sherlock glanced at his brother, then turned on his heel to leave. Molly ducked back behind the door and let it swing shut, praying they did not catch her spying.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And a happy New Year,” Mycroft replied. Molly heard him pull out his phone and talk with someone quickly and quietly as soon as his brother was out of earshot, but she was done. Letting out a long-held exhale, she sunk down against the wall of the morgue until she was sitting on the chilled white floor.

There she sat, alone with the woman that Sherlock had known by her naked body. Which meant he had seen her naked before. Which meant he had been naked with her, of course. Molly clenched her fingers into tight fists as the perfect storm of anguish and anger overtook her. The brothers’ words echoed in her head.

_“…do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”_

_“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”_

“Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper,” she sobbed to the empty room.

***

So, what happened to our darling little gift? It sat, sadly forgotten, as events immediately following distracted John from rescuing it from Sherlock’s desk. Sherlock was called to St. Barts, John was notified by Mycroft that _the woman’s_ body had been found, and he and Mrs. Hudson became dutiful to Sherlock, watching, waiting for any signs of a deadly, compulsive drug habit to raise its dreadful head. John did notice it on the desk at one point and cursing himself for neglecting it, he placed it in a more prevalent position where he was certain the detective would find it. But alas, in the ensuing days, it became covered with case files and buried under photographs of evidence. Two weeks later, while the detective was scrounging for something on his desk, he unearthed the present but tossed it aside in his focused search. It poised on the edge of the desk for a moment, then fell with a quiet thump to the carpeted floor. Mrs. Hudson, two days later, unwittingly nudged it under the desk with her vacuum where it sat, unseen.

It was not long after that Sherlock and Moriarty had their show-down and the detective had to fake his death. If not for Molly, the present would have sat under the desk, quietly waiting, collecting dust and cobwebs as John moved out and moved on with his life. But Molly aided in Sherlock’s charade; when she knew he was well out of the country, she slipped into the flat (it was not hard to con the key from Mrs. Hudson) to look for it. She knew it had never been opened.  It took her an over an hour of frustrating searching, and it was only when she collapsed on the floor in tears that she finally spotted it.

“There you are,” she said, and reclaimed the box as a child to its favorite toy, clutching it to her chest with sobs of grief. Sherlock was gone, forever possibly, and this was the only thing that she could pretend was his that she could hold onto.

***

So now that we know the fate of the present, you may be wondering what was in that carefully wrapped parcel. For that, let’s take a step back in time to a few weeks before Christmas, when our dear Molly had just finished her shift at St. Bart’s and was walking home through the market. But she was not thinking about work or the groceries she needed.

_Sherlock._

“Nice jewelry for the nice lady!” the old man said to her.

“Wh- what?” Molly said, shaken from her thoughts.

“Nice jewelry for the nice lady!” the man repeated, gesturing her over to his table. He grinned, revealing missing front teeth surrounded by chapped lips and three days of stubble. He was wearing a gray, torn coat and a black cap that came down to just over his eyes. Molly looked around frantically for an escape, but the farmer in the next booth was busy with customers.

“I really don’t need-,”

“Then for a gift! Christmas is around the corner, maybe buy a gift!” The man picked up a necklace with gloved hands that had the fingertips cut out. Indeed, Christmas was a few weeks away, the chill in the air making Molly tighten the grip on her coat. She took a half step towards the table out of politeness, for the table was a motley crew of cheap bracelets, tarnished rings, and tangled necklaces.

“I don’t have many people to buy for,” she admitted shyly.

“Aw, pretty girl like you must have a boyfriend or ten!”

Molly blushed and smiled and took another step towards the table.

“What’s that one?” She asked, pointing to an object hidden underneath a large, rusted cross.

“Oh, that one? Good eye, miss, good eye! This ‘ere is an ancient protective charm. See, in the shape of a heart – but a real heart, see the detail? And on the back is a mystical proverb that offers safe passage to anyone who wears it!”

“Safe passage? To where?”

“Oy, safe passage – well, through life, of course!”

Molly frowned, but accepted the token when offered. She wiped the grime off the metal charm and noticed the carefully carved anatomically correct features of the heart. It was almost a ½ centimeter in thickness and had a weight and a heft to it that she could feel as it nested neatly in the center of her palm.   There seemed to be some color on it underneath the dirt. On the back she could see writing, but flakes of rust obscured it. There was a hole with a small ring through the top left corner of the piece, so one could fasten it to a necklace or key ring.

“How much?” she ventured. The man shot out a price that shocked Molly, then he quickly cut it in half. Molly cut it in half again, and handed him the money before she had time to think about what she was doing.

“Merry Christmas, miss!” The man waved to her as she continued her way home, the charm clutched in her hand, and shopping at the market forgotten.

After a careful soak in warm, soapy water and brushing with an old toothbrush, the true beauty of the charm was finally revealed. The separate parts of the heart, the ventricles, the chambers, had not been painted distinct colors, but intricately carved out of different colored stones and pieced together. She chipped away at the rust over the writing with an old nail pick and discovered letters on the silver backside of the charm:

_Qui Custodit_

Now Molly had learned enough Latin in school to recognize the language, and it only took a few more moments for her to translate it:

To Him That Protects

_Well, Sherlock protects us, all of us, from bad people. It’s perfect._

She sat down on a kitchen chair, the now-clean charm clutched in her hand. She visualized giving it to the detective and how he would be taken aback, eyes wide once he read the inscription, realizing that Molly had given him a heart – her heart – and how he would pull her close and open his heart to her. The brief image of Sherlock above her, naked, nothing but the charm on a chain around his neck beating a staccato against his chest as he pounded into her, chanting her name –

“Oh, God,” Molly said out loud, putting the charm down as if it was the culprit giving her these thoughts. Shakily she made herself a cup of tea and tucked her new purchase into a drawer to wait for Christmas day.

***

That, gentle reader, ends our story....actually, no it doesn't. You see, that charm stayed in Molly's top drawer for quite a long time, still wrapped in that box, tucked between her socks and her bras. Waiting - for what? Even Molly did not know. But it was when Sherlock called her one day and asked that Molly tell him that she loved him - well - she hung up the phone and ripped open the drawer and grabbed that box and took off her shoe and walloped the pain and frustration and hurt with the heel of that shoe until only pieces and shards of the gift remained. 

She sat back and looked at the mess and smiled and felt better.

After she found out that Sherlock's sister, Eurus, had coerced that phone call out of her brother she forgave Sherlock. She always did.

And the secret of the inscribed stone heart was lost to the world forever.

 

 


End file.
